The men are painted grayish-white, a mix of chalk and oil, with darker accents around their eyes and noses and rubbed into the lines of their scarification. A few do have chrome paint here and there, although it's not the same chrome they used when Joe was their leader. Back then, the point was to get intoxicated on the aerosol fumes as they prepared for violent self-sacrifice. Now, the chrome is painted with brushes, is sometimes tinted in more than one color, and is a reminder that they're free to live or to die, as they see fit. Really, none of them have to wear paint at all, but old habits die hard, and anyway it protects their skin from the scorching sun.
The War Boys (not all are men, though there's a certain uniformity of dress and adornment so it's easy to assume so), are attentive to their work, but not oblivious to the stranger that's captured their boss' attention. One of the taller ones straightens, watching him thoughtfully. Generally speaking, Furiosa doesn't need physical protection and will fight her own battles, but it's part of her crew's job to watch her six.
Her bearing is a blend of military precision and street-brawler confidence, but there's nothing hostile in her posture yet. Sometimes the Nexus has an ugly side, but people here are friendly, or civil, more often than not. She has no way of knowing he's reaching out to her mind, and no defense other than raw force of will. Others who have read her before have sensed that she comes from a place of violence and pain--everything out here hurts--but experience has tempered her intentions. She's a survivor, willing to be ruthless in defense of her people and their home, but also committed to the principle of doing nothing more brutal than is absolutely necessary.
And right now, the bulk of her surface thoughts are taken up with calculating how much fertilizer they need for the sorghum crops.
"New and lost are sometimes the same thing around here," she tells him with wry humor, and tucks her pen in a loop in one of the many belts around her rib cage. "But you have plenty of space to decide if you want to go back to the place you came from. Some do, some don't."
And some can't, but she has no way to know whether that's the case for this one.
no subject
The War Boys (not all are men, though there's a certain uniformity of dress and adornment so it's easy to assume so), are attentive to their work, but not oblivious to the stranger that's captured their boss' attention. One of the taller ones straightens, watching him thoughtfully. Generally speaking, Furiosa doesn't need physical protection and will fight her own battles, but it's part of her crew's job to watch her six.
Her bearing is a blend of military precision and street-brawler confidence, but there's nothing hostile in her posture yet. Sometimes the Nexus has an ugly side, but people here are friendly, or civil, more often than not. She has no way of knowing he's reaching out to her mind, and no defense other than raw force of will. Others who have read her before have sensed that she comes from a place of violence and pain--everything out here hurts--but experience has tempered her intentions. She's a survivor, willing to be ruthless in defense of her people and their home, but also committed to the principle of doing nothing more brutal than is absolutely necessary.
And right now, the bulk of her surface thoughts are taken up with calculating how much fertilizer they need for the sorghum crops.
"New and lost are sometimes the same thing around here," she tells him with wry humor, and tucks her pen in a loop in one of the many belts around her rib cage. "But you have plenty of space to decide if you want to go back to the place you came from. Some do, some don't."
And some can't, but she has no way to know whether that's the case for this one.